


Eleonora

by Colaris



Category: Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colaris/pseuds/Colaris
Summary: Scriddler, hurt, comfort, suicide thoughts, mentioning of anorexia nervosa. Don't ask...
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma
Kudos: 17
Collections: A crow finds a riddle in the dark





	Eleonora

The faint rustling of the wind slipped through the leaks in the dirty window, filling the small room with an unusual background noise. Jonathan lay completely motionless on the soft mattress, just listened to the fascinating sounds around him and registered slightly light-headed how the environment around him slowly changed. He blinked a few times against the persistent darkness, then smiled dejectedly. Basically, those noises were all he had left. As much as the former psychiatrist wished, his eyesight would never return. Hoping for it was a waste of time. The thin man turned on his side and ran his right hand over the velvety fabric of the bedspread. It tickled slightly, leaving an almost pleasant tingling sensation on his demolished skin. The brown-haired man mumbled to himself: "One would think that I would have got used to this eternal darkness, but to say this would be a bold lie." The Master of Fear sighed softly. Speaking his thoughts out loud at least gave him the deceptive impression that someone was right by his side and would give a meaningful answer after a while.

The reality was of course different. That longed-for answer would probably never come. He was a prisoner of his own nightmare and every attempt to break out of it failed miserably due to the fact that no one could turn back time. There was no hope. No light. Just darkness. Jonathan dug his fingers deeply into the warming fabric, burying his face in the comfortable pillow under his head. His body began to tremble by itself. The former psychiatrist didn't really mind the chilling temperature around him, but that evening the coldness held him in her icy hands. A stranglehold he couldn't really escape. The thin man suddenly felt a single tear find its way over a multitude of scars on his cheek and slowly slide down. He wiped his cool skin quickly. This whiny behavior was more than unacceptable for a seasoned academic like him. A thickening lump in his throat, however, indicated that all his efforts to stand against his feelings would fail at some point that night. You could ignore the sadness, banish it, deny it, curse it - in the end it would surface and lead to a downright collapse. With this in mind wasn't it actually wiser to give in to this inner urge to show emotional weakness? Now that he was alone?

The brown-haired man sat on the edge of the bed and put his hands on his knees. A few seconds passed without anything happening, brought a frightening realization for the criminal. He couldn't cry. Jonathan clenched his knees. No more tears would come. He couldn't really give his feelings the needed space, even if it would give him some relief in his troubled soul. It just didn't work. The spiral of thoughts in his mind was spinning again without ceasing. His left hand slid sideways into his straw-like hair and held the heavy head uncertainly on his thin fingers. He chewed his lower lip almost helplessly, staring at the floor with his blind eyes. The Master of Fear was about to rise from the bed when he heard a suspicious noise from the corridor. Out of habit, his opals looked at the door, or at least roughly in its direction. His brain still pretended to recognize shadows and outlines that he had seen sometime before the incident. Well-known places were impressively reconstructed from his memory. It doesn't matter whether these have changed drastically in the meantime.

This often led to unexpected difficulties in his orientation. In general, the familiar gave him security, and every novelty around him immediately stumbled him. The former psychiatrist listened into the darkness. Was it possible that he had just misheard? Quiet steps in the hallway quickly ruled out this possibility. Despite the noises, the gaunt man felt no fear or discomfort. He didn't own anything of value in his apartment and if a homeless person was content to use his nearly empty refrigerator, it shouldn't matter to him anymore. The brown-haired man had stopped eating two weeks ago. His hunger had long since passed and this circumstance made it at least possible for him to stay in his home. Nothing would be worse than wandering around outside Gotham in his wrecked condition to the amusement of all the gleeful people on the streets. The former psychiatrist pressed a hand to his cramping stomach. Even if the stomach occasionally rebelled, in the end it gave up constantly crying out for food. Most likely, the organ knew that this would remain just a wish and that nutrients would no longer force their way into the esophagus.

The pain slowly subsided. A cold wind played around his bony figure. The Master of Fear had long since decided on a quick way out of life and it was only a matter of time before death would knock on his door. It wasn't the plan to actually go the long road of starvation, but as long as he didn't know exactly how to do it, there was at least the hope of not waking up one morning due to lack of energy. The steps in the corridor came slowly closer and suddenly fell silent on the other side of the door. The thin man waited cautiously. The screeching of the hinges snuggled painfully against his ears, signaling that someone was entering the room. There was a thud, and then - silence. Suddenly it had become so quiet. Where was the wind? Where were the cracking branches? Where were the ravens in the tree tops? Jonathan looked around, disoriented, looking in the dark for the unannounced visitor.

After a while he heard the unusually low voice of an old friend: “Hey John. Don't worry, yeah. It's just me.” The former psychiatrist tried to fake a smile. Slight goose bumps crept down his back and gradually spread over his skin. He looked in the direction of the visitor and spoke in an alarming weak voice: "Edward. What a pleasant surprise. I'm very happy to see you again.” Those words hurt more than he expected. The former psychiatrist closed his eyes and heavily swallowed his emerging emotions. He heard the quiet steps again. Suddenly the tinkerer sat down next to him, the mattress gave way under the weight of the black-haired man. The Riddler breathed evenly, a long-forgotten warmth emanating from his body. The younger one finally spoke calmly: “You can hardly talk about seeing me again, right? I heard what happened and, yeah, how should I say that. I'm sorry, John.” The Master of Fear shrugged his shoulders slightly. Before he could reply, the other went on quietly: “I wasn't sure whether I should really come over or not. I mean, after the whole Waylon thing, you suddenly distanced yourself from everything and everyone and stopped showing yourself in public. Fuck, the underground has already made bets on whether you are dead or not."

The lean man laughed dryly at this message. He shuddered from the surrounding cold and had the strong impulse to take refuge in the warm embrace of the inventor. Contrary to his wishes, he replied exhausted: “I hope you were right with your bet. As you can see, I'm still alive.” To his astonishment, Edward didn't react calmly as usual. He didn't seem to be particularly amused by the statement. As if to confirm, the black-haired man hissed under clenched teeth: “It's not funny at all, John. Seriously. I just got half a shock when I walked in the door. You got so damn thin. Is there anything left at all? Only skin and bones it seems. When was the last time you ate something?” The former psychiatrist pressed his lips tightly together and stared at the floor in dismay. There was an awkward silence. Suddenly the older man felt the hand of the inventor on his. The Riddler slowly put his fingers around his, warmed his chilled skin. Even without his eyesight, the Master of Fear knew that the other was staring at him, waiting for answers.

He finally replied hesitantly: "I'm fine Edward. I don't need any help.” Both knew that this claim was nothing more than a lie. The younger one tightened the grip on his hand and didn't seem to let go of it again. Jonathan only shivered harder. The contrast between the inviting warmth of the black-haired man and his dying body increased with every passing second. He really wanted to be close, but at the same time there was a nagging fear of rejection. A monster like him was no longer allowed to receive affection. The tinkerer grumbled sourly: “You can fool the rest of the world, John, but not me. Should I put a funnel in your mouth and stuff you with food until you have some meat on your ribs again? Or would you prefer a cursed feeding tube? Your fucking decision.” The brown-haired man winced noticeably. He knew that he had always meant a lot to the younger man. Probably more than he wanted to admit.

There was a deeply hidden passion between them that had grown with each meeting in the past and almost exploded before his imprisonment. Only their worthless pride had prevented them from giving in to their lust in the end. But this was once upon a time. Jonathan was more than certain that the inventor had only come to him out of pity and would now look around for a more handsome partner. After all, the inventor wasn't exactly unattractive. Edward suddenly sighed softly and seemed to be reaching for something on the floor. Probably his shoulder bag. The black-haired man spoke calmly: “I brought you something. You have told me often enough that you love Edgar Allan Poe and that I should read something from him when I got the chance. I followed your advice.” With these words he put an arm around the older man and pulled him closer to his chest. He gasped in surprise, but did not evade the embrace.

He could hear the Riddler open a book and slowly turn the pages. Jonathan's heart suddenly began to beat faster. A few seconds passed before the younger one finally started reading aloud: "Eleonora by Edgar Allan Poe from 1842. I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion." The inventor's voice lit up the room with its soft sound, penetrating like a light through the darkness. The Master of Fear listened carefully. An indefinable feeling spread in his soul, touched him at points that he believed he had lost for a long time. Each additional line of the short story carried the gaunt man on, taking him to places he had avoided out of fear. Places of memories. Mostly memories of better times. 

Tears pooled in his gray eyes, slowly running down his cheeks and falling unchecked off his chin. Edward, however, just read on, bravely struggled through the sometimes difficult formulations. "… for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora.” The Riddler finished the short story, carefully closed the book. He apparently put it aside and finally wrapped his other arm tightly around the trembling figure beside him. The former psychiatrist cried silently, his weak fingers clutching the black-haired man's shoulders tightly. Edward whispered hoarsely: "John, I ask you, whatever you do, do not give up. I can really take a lot of your bullshit. Your hatred, your scorn, your rejection. If you scream in my ear right away that I should please get the fuck out of your life, that's okay too, just please don't die. I would not stand that. Your death is also my end and I'm afraid of dying so early in my life.”

The brown-haired man pressed his eyes tighter together and only held on to the younger man even more. The tinkerer slowly put the blanket around their body, giving the former psychiatrist the long-awaited warmth. The silence this time was extraordinarily beautiful. Reassuring. Balm for a broken soul. The younger one finally pulled him onto his lap and closed his arms around his narrow hips, pressing his fingertips into the worn clothes. Jonathan's lips quivered when he breathed softly: "Don't let go of me, Edward. Please, don't go. Stay."


End file.
